Lightning shot down her spine.
His fingers tipped her chin, shifting her gaze upward. "There," he murmured.
Vivienne was seeing stars—but not the ones in the sky. His warm breath ghosted her cheek, his touch a reminder of the familiar and forbidden all at once.
She took a sharp step back, breaking the moment before it could evolve into anything further. "Yes. Thank you." Her voice came out quieter than she intended.
Cirrus studied her expression, slight hurt flickering behind his ice-blue eyes. "Too close?"
Vivienne nodded, her thoughts a tangled mess.
Way too close.
Not close enough.
When was the last time we had been this close?
Stop it, Vivienne.
The chemistry between them had always been effortless, undeniable. Even after years apart, the spark remained, waiting for one of them to be foolish enough to strike a match.
Cirrus slid his hands into his trouser pockets, his smirk returning, but softer. "Sorry, Banns. I’ll keep my hands to myself."
The way he said it sent a wash of longing and disappointment through her core.
His eyes held the promise offor now.
15
The next morning, Vivienne trailed behind Lewis in the tight, slow-moving breakfast line, the scent of oats and salted meat permeating the galley air.
"Wow, this looks absolutely exquisite, Cookie," Lewis said, his voice dripping with enthusiasm as he held out his tin plate.
Cookie, arms crossed like a fortress, gave him a flat, unblinking stare, his scarred hands clenching the ladle a little too tightly.
Vivienne leaned in as they climbed the steps to the main deck, lowering her voice. "Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you?" She cast him a side-long glance. "We already have dish duty."
Lewis' eyes widened behind his spectacles as he shot her a look. "Uh, do you want to take the chance Cookie poisons us? Because I sure don’t."
Vivienne snorted, shaking her head. "Fair point."
Finding a clear patch of deck, they sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, carefully sipping their oatmeal straight from their tin plates, neither daring to use a spoon after yesterday’s discovery about dishwashing methods.
"How was your night?" Lewis asked between bites, his words muffled by a mouthful of oats.
Vivienne stalled, rolling the question over in her mind. She could tell him about the night shift with Cirrus, but something about it felt too raw, too personal to share just yet.
"Fine," she said, keeping her tone neutral. "Didn’t sleep great. The mattress is thin."
Lewis scoffed dramatically and cupped a hand around his ear. "I’m sorry, what was that? Couldn’t hear you over the sound of sleeping in a hammock next to a hundred sweaty sailors."
Vivienne winced, guilt creeping in. "Sorry..." She’d forgotten how miserable his accommodations, or lack thereof, were.
After clearing their own plates, they rolled up their sleeves to tackle the quickly-forming stack of dishes. They fell into easy conversation as they scrubbed tin plates in lukewarm, briny water, the rhythmic clang of dishware filling the galley. Despite the chore, they laughed and chatted about nothing and everything, squeezing in one last moment of normalcy before their separate assignments.
The sharp click of boots on the stairs was their only warning before Commander Thorne stepped into view, his eyes narrowing in brief surprise.
"I thought I’d have to track you down for dish duty," he said, arms folding across his broad chest. "I appreciate you saving me the trouble."
